A Falling Away of Innocence
by RoaringMice
Summary: Malcolm is forced to deal with loss of control and sense of self. He's used to being able to overcome his difficulties, even his fears, through force of will. Circumstances prevent this, and he finds himself having to rely on others.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Written for the EntFicathon on LJ. Rinkle requested the following: No slash, and... Story 1: Tucker, Reed friendship, angst, humour or hurt comfort / Story 2: Despite great odds, Trip saves the day. Angsty rather than humour._

_I gave her both._

_Some influences from the New York Times coverage of the Israel/Lebanon situation, N. Gaiman and R. Thurman in this piece - little touches here and there, nothing overt, just influences. And of course, all my own angst and crap with the stuff in London, the 9/11 anniversary coming up, and all that thrilling garbage. Thus, a story is born!_

_Warnings: Angst. Violence and its aftermath. Some swearing, but mild._

_Beta: SueC, with thanks._

x-x

Malcolm tried to push himself up but his hand slipped and he crashed back down. Wincing, attention torn between the pain in his elbow and that in his head, he looked around, confused by what he saw. What in the world...?

The plaza around him was slick with blood and littered with bodies and chunks of fallen masonry. Twisted metal dangled from the graceful arches that had surrounded the large space. The building nearest him was charred, its windows blown out, glass strewn across the pavement.

There had been an explosion, of that he was certain. God...Trip! Where was...? Malcolm swung his head to the right, then groaned when the nausea and pain hit. He let himself sink back to the pavement, closing his eyes as he took a series of slow, measured breaths. Head injury. And something else.

His side felt heavy and cold. In fact, other than the sharp pain in his head, his whole body felt cold and numb.

He lay there, utterly still while he focused on the source of the feeling. It seemed to be centred mostly on his left side, near his stomach. He could feel the cold radiating out, flowing through his hip, his legs, and his arms. He ran a gentle hand along his side and felt warmth. Lifting his hand, he saw blood. His blood.

He almost smiled. The blood was so warm, but he was so bloody cold.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and found himself staring up into the red face of a concerned looking Polobian. It wasn't until the person started speaking, mouth moving in a silent dance, that Malcolm realised that the blast had taken out his hearing.

x-x

- Earlier -

Malcolm spun his empty glass on the slick surface of the table, the sunlight glinting off its edge as it twirled. He laughed at Trip's latest joke as his eyes wandered to one particularly stunning Polobian who swept by their café table. He watched her pass, admiring her scantily clad assets, and he heard Trip give out a low whistle.

He and Trip had spent the entire afternoon at this outdoor café, drinking, eating, and enjoying themselves. Malcolm had placed his chair so that he could just see the ocean through the arches closest to them - that is, when no one was blocking his view. Their café was directly in the middle of a wide, sweeping plaza ringed by ancient arches, and it seemed to him as if half the town had walked by while he'd been sitting there.

Malcolm ran a hand through his dark hair, brushing stray strands away from his damp forehead. It was a warm day and most people, Polobian and alien, were wearing little to nothing in terms of clothing, revealing skins in a variety of shades of red, blue, green and other colours. Both he and Trip were remarkably pale in comparison, although like the rest of the visitors they were dressed casually, Trip wearing one of his typically flamboyant shirts, Malcolm dressed somewhat more sedately in a simple black shirt and his favourite trousers, the ones past girlfriends had told him accentuated the positive. Still, based on the skimpy attire of the natives, he suspected that he was significantly over-dressed.

He was grateful that he and Trip had been able to get their shore leaves to coincide. Not only was Trip great company, if a bit boisterous, but it was nice to be able to relax with someone of a similar rank.

He'd always enjoyed the time he spent with Hoshi, Travis, and the other more junior members of Enterprise's crew, but at the same time, he felt this sort of activity - of the ogling the pretty natives and drinking sort - was off limits while with them, even on shore leave. There was a certain responsibility that came with his rank and position. In effect, even when he was off duty and security matters were well in hand, he often felt that he needed to behave "appropriately" when around their more junior staff members.

"Nice," Trip said under his breath, motioning with his glass towards one especially beautiful native. Malcolm watched her pass, appreciatively.

Actually, he wasn't sure that she was a she. The natives to this planet could tell each other's gender from a glance, but damned if he could. For sanity's sake, he'd pretty much settled on thinking of every Polobian as a "she".

The Polobian looked back over her shoulder and gave Malcolm a sly smile. Malcolm blushed, but he didn't look away. It didn't matter if that person were male or female; they were still enormously attractive. Keeping his eyes on her retreating form, he motioned for the waiter to refill his glass.

It was nice to have a few moments to himself, off the job with no one to protect and no responsibilities. He thought back to the gap year he'd had in Java before entering university, which he'd mostly spent going from beach to beach, moving when the spirit took him. He smiled, looking down at his glass. He'd learnt to surf on that trip. He'd also met Jamie. He cocked an eyebrow - learnt a lot there, too. He finished the drink and glanced up at Trip. "If we have time, I'd like to catch a few waves. Would you be interested?"

Trip looked at him in surprise. "Surfing?"

Malcolm leaned his elbows on the small table between them. "I think I saw a rental centre on the beach -"

Trip interrupted him with a hasty, "Aren't you British?"

Malcolm blinked in confusion, then frowned. "Yes?"

At Trip's answering, "Um," Malcolm sighed. Rolling his eyes in mock-frustration, he said, "We do have waves," he said, thinking fondly of the surfing he'd done in Cornwall. At Trip's look of embarrassed confusion, he decided to take pity on the man and smiled. "Although I learnt in Java."

"Java?" Trip asked. "Never been there." He took a slow sip from his drink, watching Malcolm over its rim. "I've never actually been surfing."

Malcolm raised his brows. "I thought, since you were from Florida..."

"Yeah, the Gulf side," Trip said expectantly.

When Trip didn't continue, Malcolm asked, "And?"

Trip's smiled, and he finished his drink before replying. "No waves." He put his glass down and drew a horizontal line with his hand. "Flat as a pancake."

"Well, there are waves here." Malcolm's smile turned wily. "Maybe I could teach you."

Trip pursed his lips and huffed a short laugh. "Yeah, I bet you'd like that. I can just see it: you surfing along all balance and grace, while I'm ass over elbows, body, brain and butt each going in different directions. No thank you."

Malcolm couldn't help but laugh. He could understand Trip's hesitation. Despite his fear of drowning, or perhaps even because of it, he'd found that he'd loved surfing, and he'd actually become quite good at it. Well, once he'd gone past the initial "get knocked off your board with every wave" stage. He could understand someone not wanting to go through that.

"Can you get me another one of these?" Trip asked, placing his cup on the table. "Be back in a sec." He rose and went into the restaurant proper, headed in the direction of the facilities.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair and swirled the liquid in his glass. He sniffed it, enjoying the warmth of the vapour before taking a slow sip. He felt the burn as it went down. Lovely. The drink was a bit of an intoxicant, but as promised, not too strong. It was leaving him feeling warm and mellow.

If Trip didn't want to try surfing, that was fine. Maybe they could find something else to do. He supposed it didn't really matter. Even just sitting here, enjoying the scenery, was fine by him.

He felt comfortable around Trip, not just due to the rank issue, but also because the man was brilliant company. With Trip, he could have the few pints and relax, maybe even get a bit pissed, without the weight of his rank and responsibility pressing down on him.

He wondered if being out of uniform had anything to do with his ability to let go and unwind. He loved his job, certainly, but there was often so much riding on his actions, and his uniform was a symbol of those responsibilities. He smiled, motioning the waiter over again, flirting with her as she took his drink order. It was nice to be out of uniform, in more ways than one.

Malcolm let the buzz of the other customers' conversations swirl around him as he looked up at the sky, its colour so blue that it had literally stopped him in his tracks when he'd stepped off the shuttle earlier. It was quite the Mediterranean sky.

Lowering his gaze, his eyes glanced over the screen hung suspended over the bar. What he saw caught his attention, and he frowned as images of some sort of conflict flashed up on the screen, a news crawl in the local language flowing below them. The information they'd been given had indicated that this was a peaceful planet, but there appeared to have been some sort of attack on the central city, only a few miles away from this resort.

The barman stopped his work and turned the sound up. The café fell silent, everyone's focus on the images playing before them.

Malcolm sat at attention when he saw bombs fall and smoke rise on the screen. That looked near, very near.

He heard the shattering sounds and felt the concussion. Then his world was gone in a flash of noise and brightness.

x-x


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you so much for your comments. I do love hearing from you!_

x-x

- Now -

Malcolm watched, shivering, as Polobians and other aliens frantically tried to help the injured. He was sitting on the ground in a makeshift triage centre, leaning back against some hastily stacked containers, one hand holding the bandages that someone, in a rush, had given him to press into his side.

He was so bloody cold. And tired. God, he could barely keep his eyes open, so why even bother? He let them sink shut.

Someone stepped over his legs and he looked up in surprise, blinking rapidly. His head hurt, really hurt, worse than earlier, the pain flowing to take up his entire being, then ebbing away and leaving him spent. The bright sunlight was an agony, so he turned his eyes away.

There were so many people here, a swirl of activity spinning around him as he sat, pressing the bandages into his side. He should probably get up and help, but he felt like he was rooted to the spot. Even the thought of moving was more than he could bear.

A frantic-looking Polobian, arms full of bottles of what looked like water, glanced in his direction and said something. Malcolm could hear the flow and cadence of her speech as it went by him, but he was too tired to respond. He watched as she shook her head, then moved on.

His hearing was starting to return, but he was still having trouble distinguishing sounds - speech, even if he'd had UT, was impossible to understand - but despite the ringing in his ears, he could hear the steady, muffled thump and thunder of artillery fire as shells hit in the near distance. That much he could hear.

Oddly enough, his side felt all right. Actually, he couldn't really feel it at all. He looked down at his injury, trying to use his eyes to tell him what he couldn't feel. He saw blood slowly coming through the fabric bunched in his hand. His hand was shaking. He looked away, up again at the masses around him.

So many others here were far worse off than he. And still there was no sign of Trip. Turning his head slowly and squinting against the sunlight, he could see people going through the rubble of the restaurant courtyard where they'd been. He should be over there, helping them, but he couldn't quite get himself to stir.

So damn cold. It had been such a warm day. Maybe he was in shock. A small laugh escaped him. Had to be that, because his only other option was that the cold he was feeling was due to blood loss, and then he'd really be in trouble.

He let his head fall back against the crates and stared at the sky, still so perfectly blue.

x-x

When Malcolm opened his eyes it was to twilight. The darkening sky was lit by fires. Their light blocked out the stars and cast a sickly glow over the plaza.

He was lying on the ground, and someone had placed a coat over him. He pulled it in closer against the chill, his teeth actually chattering. He hadn't felt this cold, this absolutely frozen since the incident in the shuttlepod with Trip during their first year out.

Turning his head slowly, afraid to reawaken the headache, he looked over to where he'd been sitting with Trip. The restaurant was just a pile of rubble. He'd probably survived because he'd been in the outdoor café. He doubted that anyone inside the structure had made it out.

Trip had gone inside.

Malcolm forced his thoughts away from that, instead trying to figure out how much time had passed since the blast. He was unsure. Enough so that he was stiff from sleeping on the ground; enough so that there was less activity now, although there were still people walking about, helping the injured and sick; enough so that there was no longer anyone working over the rubble that had been the restaurant.

They'd either given up on finding survivors, or all the survivors had already been brought out. But if Trip had been found, someone would have notified him. After all, when compared to the Polobians, who were all deep red skin and dark hair, Malcolm and Trip were obviously of the same species.

Malcolm grabbed the ankle of a passing Polobian, almost tripping the man in his haste. Apologising despite the fact that he knew that the Polobians didn't have mechanical translators, Malcolm pointed a frantic hand towards the rubble that was the restaurant, then raised his brows in a question.

The Polobian squatted beside him, frowning. He said something that Malcolm didn't catch, then shook his head sadly. He pointed his hand to Malcolm, then held up one finger. He shook his head again, then he said one of the few local words that Malcolm had learnt, "No."

Malcolm nodded and turned away. He didn't need full hearing, or knowledge of the language, to understand. He'd been the only survivor from the restaurant. Everyone else had died. He stared at the smoke, rising orange and grey into the darkened sky.

All those people, dead, and Trip among them.

Dead. He mulled over the word, considering it. He didn't feel anything. He should feel something, right? But all he felt was numb. Cold, inside and out.

Malcolm shifted the coat, his hand shaking, and saw that someone had properly bandaged his side. There was an edge of a bruise forming around the lump that was the injury, and now it hurt, a low painful throbbing. And with each breath, there was a slight but growing wet feeling in his chest, a pressure, as if someone had set a weight upon him.

He felt a small smart in the crook of his arm and pushed up the sleeve of his jumper, revealing a small pinprick and bruise. Needles, right: primitive but effective. His headache had lessened, so someone had probably given him some painkillers. He knew that there was no way that a Polobian medic, if the person even was a medic, would have had any knowledge of how a drug might affect him. He found he didn't care.

He pulled the coat around him again and noticed his hand, darkened by blood. His blood. He flexed his hand and pulled it into a tight fist.

There was a commotion as a vehicle moved into his field of vision and they started loading patients onto it. It was the first vehicle he'd seen. Another vehicle came just behind the first, then a third. They were probably transporting those with the worst injuries someplace safer and with more of an ability to care for them. Apparently, it had taken them this long to get in here. Things must be really bad out there if infrastructure and communications...

Stupid, stupid, he said to himself, fumbling for his communicator before falling back in disappointment. His trousers had been torn where the pocket had been, and the device was gone.

A group of Polobians came by and one pointed at him, then spoke to the others. She stepped to his side, squatted down and said something. Malcolm could make out the voice, but the words were both beyond his hearing and his understanding of the local language, so he shrugged and said, "Sorry," pointing to his ears.

She nodded and pointed to him, then to one of the waiting vehicles. Two others came to his side and pulled away the coat, then helped him sit. He hissed as the movement jarred his side, and closed his eyes against the sudden pain, trying to even out his breathing as they helped him stand. They began a slow shuffle towards the waiting vehicle.

Malcolm kept his focus inward and on his breathing, trying to ward off the pain, walking blind. He could smell the exhaust, feel the heat of the engine as they reached the vehicle. As he let himself be settled into a seat he couldn't help but gasp, but he stifled it quickly, eyes still closed. He felt a hand pat his shoulder and move away. A moment later, someone was again by his side and pushing his sleeve up. He felt something cool, and then a prick as a needle entered his arm, and pressure as the drug was released into his system.

Others were settled in beside him, behind his seat, the vehicle rocking with each new passenger. Opening his eyes, he realised that he was sitting at the rear, facing the back window. Directly in front of him was the rubble where Trip was buried.

As the vehicle pulled away, he watched the wreckage get smaller and smaller. He watched until he couldn't actually see it at all. He kept watching.

x-x

Malcolm sat up carefully, each move slow and deliberate. He made sure not to dislodge the blanket that had been given to him when he'd arrived, moving so that it remained on his shoulders. The pain had faded again, a dull roar rather than the sharpness of earlier, but he was still so damn cold. If the blanket slid away, he wasn't sure he had the strength to grab it again.

Taking a controlled breath against the pressure in his chest, he pushed himself fully upright on the cot and looked around the large, dim room. The hospital's power supply had obviously been affected by the attack, and the only light came from lanterns propped on various surfaces.

There were so many other people there, Polobian and alien, all crammed into a space that looked as if it normally was a cafeteria of some sort. There were people lying on cots, sitting on chairs, even sitting on the floor along one of the walls. He could see a stack of trays that had been shoved off to the side, obviously in haste when the room had been transformed into a waiting area.

He had arrived at hospital to find it in a flurry of activity, with too many patients overwhelming doctors who were obviously not used to dealing with so much at once. He could see the fear in some of the staff's eyes, and he could tell that they'd never before experienced an attack of this sort. But he hadn't seen evidence of new bombings since the initial ones. They were being given a respite, however brief.

He'd watched as the most seriously injured had been treated first, then moved elsewhere within the building. Now he was left with those who, like himself, had apparently been deemed able to wait.

The door across the room opened and admitted another person, who limped to the counter that had been set up as an admit station. Malcolm checked his face, then looked away. He had scanned the face of each incoming patient, hoping against hope that one would be Trip. None had.

The lights around him flared with a hiss, and a monitor in the far corner of the room flickered to life in a burst of sound. Malcolm felt his gaze drawn to it along with those of everyone else in the room, which had suddenly gone still.

The monitor was broadcasting pictures of the city. Although he couldn't understand the voiceover, the images were all he needed to understand the extent of the destruction. This had been a major attack.

There were people, Polobian and alien, scrabbling through wreckage, helping the trapped and injured. The imagery jumped to a series of stills of Polobians, then aliens. After a moment, Malcolm realised that they were showing photographs of people who were missing. There were so many. He watched, mesmerised by the flow. His trance was broken when he saw Trip's face flash by, then his own.

The screen cut to Captain Archer, speaking to reporters gathered around him. Although the universal translator was converting his speech into the local language, Malcolm found that if he focused, he could just make out some of the English words underneath.

"...help in the rescue attempts..." Archer said, his face clearly anguished. "...own crewmen missing...blasts, presumed dead..." The film cut to an interview with another alien, and Malcolm tuned it out.

Enterprise thought he was dead. The cold flowed over his cheeks and his chest, and he frowned.

He was so calm. Perhaps he was in shock? He supposed it didn't matter.

Turning away from the monitor, he instead stared down at his hand. Much of the dried blood had gone, worn away, but it was still encrusted around the edges of his nails and in the folds and pores of his skin. He'd love to have the chance to wash his hands, perhaps even shower.

Looking up, he saw a water fountain across the room and he realised just how thirsty he was. Hands to the edge of the cot, he slowly pushed himself to standing.

His heartbeat filled his ears. The light faded and in a rush, the floor came up to meet him.

x-x

Malcolm's eyes fluttered open and he stared off at nothing. There was a steady, muted bleeping somewhere nearby, and the lights were dim.

Cold, he was so cold, and sore, his side especially, and his head. Thirsty, too. Hadn't he...?

He pushed himself to sitting and floated there for a moment, waiting for his head to clear. It didn't, so he went ahead and slid off the edge of the bed, his bare feet making contact with the smooth, cold floor. He stared at his hands, clean now, then rubbed his bare arms. His own clothes were gone and he was dressed in some sort of trousers and short-sleeved shirt. He felt the chill creeping up from his feet, filling him, making him even colder.

He looked up and only then realised that he was swaying, the rows and rows of patients, their blankets glowing white against the dimness of the room, undulating before him. Each person had a monitor beside them. The room was absolutely silent.

Dead, they were all dead. Like Trip.

A medic came to his side and he heard her voice through the fog, soft words seeming purposefully calm as she returned him to bed.

He let her lay him down and bustle over him, checking his bandages, his monitors. It didn't matter what she did.

He was fairly certain that, like the others, he was dead.

x-x

_Please review and let me know what you think of this so far. _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks so much for your reviews. They are so important to me - you have no idea. _

x-x

Blood has its own smell...thick and cloying, the metallic scent of iron. It was in the air around Malcolm as he lay on the plaza, staring up at the clear blue sky. Someone was shouting, frantic calls indistinct, one blurring into the other, impossible to understand. He closed his eyes and watched as Trip left the table with a smile. Turning away, his friend entered the restaurant and walked towards the toilets. Someone was shouting...

Malcolm woke with medics around him, holding him down on a bed. He'd just been with Trip, and now he was...where was he? He blinked several times and remembered in a rush. Hospital, he was in hospital, and Trip was...

Trip was dead.

He sucked in a breath and it burned his throat. His eyes tracked one medic as she injected something into an IV line that was snaking into his arm. She said something, her voice calm and controlled, and the other medics released him.

His throat was sore.

Someone touched his arm. It was Trip. Trip, who was quite obviously dead, and Malcolm scrambled back in alarm.

"You're fine," Trip said calmly. Or maybe it was the medic? Malcolm wasn't sure. Trip's hand moved from his arm to the bed beside him, and Malcolm watched it move as heaviness flowed over him. "You're fine," Trip, or the medic, repeated.

Malcolm felt the numbness returning. "Fine?" he asked, his voice coming out hoarse and strained, all but gone. "Oh. All right."

x-x

Malcolm woke soaked in sweat. He'd had a nightmare.

Actually, he wasn't sure it was a nightmare. Something about Trip...no, that wasn't quite right. Now it was a half-remembered blurring of dream and reality, already slipping away, best set aside and forgotten.

Turning his head slowly, he saw that he was now in a fairly large, long room with several dozen other patients, the mix of locals and aliens filling every bed in the space. It was a different room from the one he'd been in before. He'd...there had been something. He thought he remembered something about an operation. He'd been hurt, that much he could remember.

Meaning to move his sheet aside and check his injury, he lifted a hand and it floated up slowly, hanging suspended for a second before it dropped back to the mattress. He heard a giggle, only realising afterwards that it had been him. All right, then. He was, perhaps, a bit loopy, most likely thanks to the IV dripping into his arm. At least it was leaving him pain-free, and his breathing was certainly better.

The sunlight was streaming through the windows lining the wall in front of him, and he could see smoke coming up over the top of the buildings beyond the garden outside. A plume of smoke roiled against the bright sky, and now, focusing on it, he could catch its acrid scent.

Not much time had passed. But with no ID on him, and no way to communicate with anyone here, and with all the frantic activity, and so many injured, how would Enterprise find him? How could he find them? They needed to know about Trip.

In a flash he remembered the waiting room and what he'd seen on the monitor. Enterprise thought him dead. Thinking that, would they continue searching, or had they already given up? How long would they even remain here? He assumed they'd continue helping with the relief effort, but there would be a time when they'd have to leave.

Trip had been so bloody excited about this shore leave, and now...

Malcolm closed his eyes against the memories. After a while he drifted, the drugs making him sleepy and a bit unfocused. He felt something touch his arm and he jumped, pulling away from the stimulus, heart pounding and breath coming in frantic gasps. Eyes open, he realised it was a medic. Christ.

She wanted him to get out of bed. Right. Okay. Yes. He could do that.

She helped him sit, then deftly arranged the IV so that the pole was beside him. She had him up and out of bed before he even knew what was going on, hand firmly at his elbow, and he took his first shuffling steps. Passing the bed beside his, he kept his eyes averted. It wouldn't be Trip there, or in any of the other beds, and he'd rather...just for a few moments more, he'd rather not know that.

x-x

Malcolm shuffled towards the door on the far wall, his left hand wrapped around the IV pole beside him. This was, he believed, his fourth day in hospital, and each passing day had found him stronger. By his third day he'd been able to make it all the way to the end of the ward and back, with a bit of assistance.

Passing the last bed he turned, almost bumping the medic trailing him. "Sorry," he murmured, hoping that she'd understand his meaning, if not his words. She smiled and he looked away, noticing another patient standing near them and blocking their path.

Malcolm gasped and took a quick step backwards, almost tripping in his haste. He felt a steadying hand on his elbow - the medic - but he couldn't tear his eyes from the person in front of him.

It was Trip. Trip, standing there, quite obviously dead, his skin suffering the effects of several days... Malcolm tore his eyes away. Not possible, this wasn't... Trip was dead, and this, this "not-Trip" wasn't there. Couldn't be there. He risked another look, only to find Trip staring at him accusingly.

Malcolm felt a gentle tug at his elbow and he turned to see the medic there, her concern clear in her expression. She tugged him forward and took a step...right through Trip, who disappeared as she passed.

Malcolm shrugged out of her grasp. Heart racing, he stepped a wide path around where not-Trip had been standing. He looked back over his shoulder as he passed the spot, and kept walking.

The medic returned her hand to his arm, asking him a question Malcolm couldn't understand. Malcolm simply shook his head and kept eyes firmly forward until they had returned him to his bed.

Hallucinations. Nothing he couldn't deal with. Traumatic events tended to stick with him. Like after the shuttlepod, with Trip. That had been bad. He got himself through it then, he could get through it now.

Just...

Malcolm ran a trembling hand through his hair.

...Just from the shock.

x-x

Hitting a button on the wall, Malcolm waited for the automated doors to open. He swung his arms a bit while he waited, glorying in the feeling of freedom. He'd forgotten how much having an IV could limit your movement.

Today was the first day he'd been allowed to take his obligatory walk without an aide at his side, and, free of his IV as well, he chose to go in an entirely different direction. Instead of walking down the ward to the far door and back, he instead went through the doors nearest his bed.

He heard the doors click, and they opened before him with a soft, mechanical hum, revealing another ward, equally as full of patients as his. He started walking, focusing on the soft conversations around him, the flap of his own slippered feet against the floor as he moved. His hearing was now significantly better. He still had no idea of the meanings of the words swirling around him but he was grateful to at least be able to hear them.

He smiled when he heard someone drawling to one of the medics, and her giggling back. Then his heart skipped a beat, and he froze in his tracks.

He hadn't hallucinated since that day on his walk. He hadn't had nightmares, either, in over two nights. He'd thought that he'd been getting better. He'd hoped...

Malcolm turned his head in the direction the voice was coming from, and he actually, physically, could not breathe at what he saw. Hand to his throat, he finally took in a great whooping gasp, eyes wide and staring. Then the eyes of everyone in the room were on him, and the medic was up and at his side in a flash. She sat him in a chair before he knew it, and there were people buzzing around him, and Trip's worried face peering down from over their shoulders.

Trip's worried, living face.

x-x

_Please review and let me know what you think of this so far!_


	4. Chapter 4

x-x 

Malcolm kept catching himself casting glances to where Trip lay on the bed beside his. All of this seemed entirely unreal, and yet there the man was, smiling and talking, flirting with the medics, a bit banged up but really none the worse for wear. He looked in better shape than Malcolm was himself.

Trip said something that Malcolm figured was a joke, so he tried to respond with the appropriate smile.

The medics had moved Malcolm to the bed beside Trip's, and he was grateful to be lying there, rather than in the other ward. He could barely believe that Trip was right there, and alive.

"Malcolm?"

"What?" Malcolm replied, startled out of his reverie.

Trip frowned slightly. "You haven't heard a thing I said."

"Sorry."

Trip swung his legs over the side of his bed, fully facing Malcolm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Malcolm said.

"You don't look so 'fine'." Trip nodded to where Malcolm's hands were propped on his chest, the sheets twisted between his fingers. "You're holding on to that blanket for dear life."

Malcolm looked at his fingers, which had blanched white from the grip he held on the blanket. He concentrated and managed to release the fabric. "Sorry," he said again, not sure of how to answer.

"You don't need to be sorry," Trip said, leaning forward slightly to close the distance between their beds. "You just need to..." He shook his head. "Listen, how long have you been here?"

"I'm not sure," Trip's brow furrowed, and Malcolm felt his anxiety increasing, his words coming fast and furious. "I'm not certain. I couldn't ask, or talk to anyone. I didn't know what the hell was going on, and couldn't do anything about it anyway." Malcolm could feel his heart beating in his chest, each pulse echoing in his ears. He took a slow, deep breath, making a conscious effort to relax.

Trip was watching him with a thoughtful expression. Then Trip slid off his mattress, going to the foot of Malcolm's bed and pulling the chart from the hook where it hung. He held it, and the translator, out to Malcolm. "Want to read and find out?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I can barely see straight. Would you mind?"

Trip held his eye for a moment, then looked down at the file in his hands. He lifted the translator and began reading. After a while, he glanced to Malcolm, then back down, still reading.

Malcolm watched him nervously. "Are you planning to keep me in suspense?" he finally asked, trying to make a joke of it.

Trip returned to his bed, sitting sideways and facing Malcolm, the file open on his lap. Head down and reading, he said, "From what I can tell via the translator, this says that you had a concussion, hearing loss, an injury to your side, and an operation for internal bleeding." He paused, still reading through the chart.

"Is there something else?" Malcolm said, trying to keep his tone light.

At last Trip looked up at him. "I'm not sure I should be reading this."

Malcolm sobered. "Go on."

Trip held his eye. "It mentions an altered mental state. That you've been having nightmares, dissociation." His eyes returned to the file. "Exaggerated startle response. Patient may be hallucinating, but with language barrier..." Trip frowned and looked up. "You okay?"

Malcolm smiled but it felt false. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before. Just from all that..." He waved a hand to encompass Trip, the hospital, and himself. "Eventually, it passes."

Trip nodded but didn't seem appeased.

In what he knew was an obvious attempt to change the subject, Malcolm said, "Have you heard anything about Enterprise?"

Trip gave him a pointed look before he said, "Yeah, actually." He closed the file and placed it on the mattress beside him. "I've been trying to send them a message through the official channels, but I had to get in line behind everyone else who's been trying to contact their governments and families. The person I spoke to said that it will probably take another day or so."

"They're still here?" Malcolm asked, feeling hope for the first time in days.

"They're involved in some of the relief efforts on the other side of the city."

"So, they don't know that we're..."

"Not yet, no." The side of Trip's mouth curled up faintly. "But they will."

Malcolm's fingers worried the edge of his blanket. "How did you get out?" he asked, not saying, I thought you were dead. I've had dreams of you dying.

Trip's smile broadened. "Building collapsed around me and a panel from the bathroom wall fell over me, basically shielding me from the worst of the debris. Took them a full day to dig me out, but out of there I did get." Trip's smile softened. "It's good to see you." He reached a hand out, crossing the space between their beds. Malcolm answered with his own gesture and their fingers brushed before he winced at the pull in his side and had to drop his arm.

x-x

Malcolm watched the shadows on the ceiling, the ward dim and not quite silent around him. It was late, so what talk there was, was quiet, and the hospital seemed relatively peaceful.

Turning his head to the side, he watched Trip sleep in the bed next to his. He'd always been envious of Trip's ability to kip, no matter the circumstances. The man had a serious gift.

The events of the day had left Malcolm spent, and he had been hoping that he'd conk right out. And he had for a while, but then the dreams had returned, more vivid than ever. And now he was lying there and staring at Trip instead of at the ceiling, afraid to even try again because sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant nightmares, and he'd really rather not.

He'd thought he'd been past all that.

In the end, he figured Trip had been there for five days, so Malcolm had been there for, maybe, six. Without news from the outside, he wasn't really sure. He supposed he could ask the staff or figure it out from his own chart, but in the end, it really didn't matter how long they'd been there. What mattered was how soon they could get out.

He'd thought Trip dead for close to a week. He hadn't even been able to ask anyone. A week, while Trip had been next ward over, while Malcolm had been helpless and worse than useless.

Trip seemed to be handling all this so well. The man had actually been trapped under the rubble for a day - Malcolm couldn't imagine what he'd gone through. So why was Trip so together, and he, Malcolm, felt like he was coming apart?

Malcolm twisted his face in frustration. Forget all that. He had more immediate needs. Standing clumsily, he turned towards the lavs, which were all the way at the other end of the ward.

He heard a loud whistling sound from outside, somewhere overhead. He barely had time to look at the ceiling before the blast hit.

All Malcolm could manage to think was, "Unbelievable."

x-x

_Please comment and let me know your thoughts._


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you so much for your comments and reviews. It's great to know that you're reading this. _

_Some have commented about the surfing reference. I hope that comes clear in the last chapter._

x-x

Trip ducked into an alcove, pulling Malcolm in beside him as the rumble of artillery fire echoed through the otherwise empty street. The night was made darker by the shadows, and Malcolm heard feet running by their hiding space, then on.

Malcolm had found himself focused on sound as they'd escaped from the remains of the hospital: the smashing of glass as the concussion of the blast broke the windows on the ward; the rumble as parts of the structure began to collapse; the shouts of the medics and the patients; Trip's frantic voice as he called out for Malcolm; their footsteps slamming against the pavement as they ran.

They couldn't have gone far from the hospital, winding their way through a few chaotic streets before they found relative peace. Malcolm had followed Trip without question, Trip pulling at his arm as they went, guiding him.

He'd left the ruins of the hospital feeling dazed, although he didn't think he'd experienced any further injury from the blast. He'd simply been...unfocused, unable to help Trip or even himself as they ran. Instead, he'd blindly followed Trip as the sounds of artillery, so typical of night time combat, pursued them.

Another set of footsteps passed their alcove, and Malcolm heard someone settling in nearby, a metre or so away. He concentrated on the sounds around him and realised that they were just two among many finding shelter in this structure. He pushed his head out of the alcove and looked up to the moonlit sky, surprised to see his view was blocked - the shelter they'd found was actually part of the structural support for a huge bridge, which arched in shadowy traces above them. Perhaps not the safest place, strategically, but...

His thoughts were interrupted when Trip pulled him back under the alcove with a sharp tug. "Stay here," Trip said, keeping his voice low.

Malcolm could just make out Trip's form in the darkness. "Sorry," he replied, matching his tone to Trip's. He should have known better than to reveal himself that way. He was so tired, though. It was probably affecting his thinking.

As if reading his mind, Trip said, "You should try to get some sleep." Trip twisted his body to better fit into the small space, ending up close beside Malcolm. "I'll take first watch." And Malcolm, too tired to argue and already feeling halfway between reality and dream, complied.

x-x

Malcolm woke by degrees, the following day dawning bright and clear, although he still felt groggy, his thoughts cloudy and half-formed. Feeling Trip shift beside him, he muttered, "You didn't wake me."

Trip turned to face him, tucking his legs up between them. "I thought you could use the rest."

"I certainly could have -

"You're not in any shape to -

Malcolm was about to respond when he saw the corner of Trip's mouth turn down.

"Malcolm, you look like crap," Trip said.

Malcolm didn't doubt it. He looked away from Trip and stared at the roadway just outside their alcove.

"I figured you needed it more than I..."

As Trip continued speaking, Malcolm watched someone's feet as they passed by their alcove and noticed the sun lighting up the road's surface and causing it to sparkle. Probably broken glass, he thought, although it certainly was beautiful.

He moved slightly as he tried to stretch the stiffness away. He'd slept in an awkward position and his side was aching again, probably from the running. His head hurt - not as much as it had done when he'd first been injured, but enough so that he wouldn't say no if Phlox offered him an analgesic.

Pulling his legs up in front of him, he wrapped his arms around them, letting Trip's words flow past him and nodding where he thought he needed.

"So, what do you think?" Trip asked.

Malcolm jerked back to the conversation. "What?"

Trip stared at him for a moment, then said, "What do you think of my idea?" When Malcolm shrugged apologetically, Trip raised an eyebrow and, pointing outside their alcove, said, "There haven't been any blasts since last night, and we're just a few blocks from the hospital, where Enterprise is probably going to be looking for us. At least, once they get our message, which should be today." He winced. "I hope. I was thinking that we should go back there."

"Yes," said Malcolm. They really weren't far from the hospital. He could see the remains of the roof from here. Why hadn't he noticed that before?

Trip grimaced. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Malcolm said without thinking, his eyes still on the smoky remnants of the hospital.

"Don't do that," Trip said sharply.

Malcolm looked at him in surprise. "Do what?"

"Just..." Trip threw his hands into the air, and then let them drop with a sigh. "...pretend you're fine when you obviously are not."

Malcolm stared at his friend. Trip was clearly frustrated with him, and he was unsure of how to respond.

"I need to know if you're okay," Trip said, more gently.

"Sorry, yes. I'm all right."

"Okay," Trip replied, his voice showing his doubt. He slid out of the alcove and stood. Holding a hand up over his eyes, he squinted against the glare, peering at something just out of Malcolm's view. "I thought I saw a vending machine over there..." Trip said, pointing to where he was looking. "...outside some sort of transport shelter. I'll get us a couple drinks, and some for the others."

"Others?" Malcolm asked, looking at Trip with confusion.

Trip nodded. "I figure there's a dozen or so other people under this bridge."

Malcolm remembered the sounds of others in the night, and the person he'd seen pass earlier. "I remember now."

Trip looked down at Malcolm, concern clear on his features. "You stay here."

Malcolm nodded and leaned back against the stone of the wall behind him, its coolness coming through his thin shirt. And he watched as Trip stood and left the café table...And he watched as the restaurant crumbled to wreckage around him... And he yelled, no, screamed Trip's name... And he screamed...

Malcolm woke to find Trip kneeling in front of him.

"Malcolm?" Trip asked. His voice seemed calm on the surface of it, but underneath Malcolm could feel the anxiety thrumming, the strain also showing in Trip's eyes.

"Trip?" Malcolm replied, his voice broken and empty. Then he stopped, surprised to find his throat so sore. There had been another time, not long ago, when he'd woken like this, but the memories were vague and dream-like, and they rushed away from him when Trip reached a hand towards him. Only then did Malcolm's vision expand. He noticed bottles of water scattered on the pavement around them. Looking at Trip again, he saw strangers' faces peering over Trip's shoulder, their eyes holding a mix of alarm and concern. He felt his body crammed against the hard stone wall behind him, the tension flooding him, and his heart pounding in his chest. His arms were still tightly wrapped around his knees, just as they'd been when Trip had left. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

"You were shouting," Trip said. He inched forward, letting his hand rest on Malcolm's arm. He looked back over his shoulder and said a soft, "Shoo," to the people around him. "Seems you had a nightmare," he said, coming in closer and settling directly in front of Malcolm, blocking Malcolm's view of the others as they moved off.

Malcolm unclamped his hands from around his legs and laid a hand to the stone below him. It was almost as if he could feel the last remnants of the dream leaving him, flowing out through the palm of his hand and down through the earth. He looked down at his fingers, splayed on the ground. "I'd thought you were dead. I watched as you left, knowing that the blast was coming, that it would bury you." He looked up at Trip, pinning him with his gaze. "That you'd die. And I did nothing. I just sat there, knowing. But I was powerless."

"It was just a dream, Malcolm."

Malcolm shook his head. How could he explain? He didn't even understand it himself.

Trip leaned in closer, his body blocking most of the sunlight, casting the alcove in shadow. "Listen, I think you've got Post Traumatic Stress," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "And if ever there was a good reason for a PTSD, um, thing, it's all this."

But Malcolm wasn't sure it was all that simple. Not that PTSD was simple by any means, but... he wasn't sure that this, whatever this was, was PTSD.

He felt as if his entire life, his entire reason for being, had been shot out from under him. Literally.

He smiled at that thought, and Trip gave him a strange look.

Trip turned to gather up the stray bottles and, handing one to Malcolm, slid in beside him. Stretching his legs out, he opened the top of his water and took two quick sips, downing most of the contents.

Malcolm opened his own container and lifted it, tapping the mouth of the bottle against his lips thoughtfully. He was so used to being in control, of being in command of his own destiny and often that of others. He was used to being able to fight his way through almost anything, no matter how difficult. Eventually, he'd master whatever it was, and gain control of it. Even with his fear of drowning, he'd purposefully sought to learn surfing. He'd fought his fear and mastered the waves, gaining a sense of power over his phobia. This recent loss of control was like a loss of self, and he found it deeply unsettling. He wasn't sure what had changed, or why, or what he could now do about it to get back to...

His thoughts were interrupted when Trip stood abruptly. "I just need to..." Trip raised an eyebrow and nodded off to the right.

"Right," Malcolm replied, placing his bottle on the ground. "Good idea, that." He tugged himself up with the aid of Trip's outstretched hand.

As Trip stepped behind one of the nearest bridge supports, Malcolm paused just outside their alcove. He arched his back, trying to stretch away some of his stiffness and tension.

Malcolm heard voices from somewhere beyond Trip's pillar, and his breath hitched. He glanced in that direction in alarm and hope. The voices were speaking English.

Trip must have heard the same thing, because the next thing he heard was Trip's shout of "Captain?" Then there was a whoosh and Malcolm was thrown, spinning, the force of the blast slamming him into the wall behind him.

He was aware only of pain and cold. There was a grey haze across his vision, and then darkness, impenetrable and shadowed. He noticed copper on his tongue. With effort, he slid a numb hand up to his chest, feeling warmth and liquid on his fingers as they moved.

There were voices around him, shouts of alarm and despair.

He could feel it pulling at him, the darkness, pulling him under.

He couldn't fight it. He wouldn't. He was done fighting.

x-x

_Let me know what you think!_


	6. Chapter 6

_This is the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading this, and a special thank you to all who left comments. I read every single one, and they mean a lot to me. _

x-x

Voices swirled around him, half-caught bits of sound and meaning floating on the waves. "...critical...coma...rests on him, his strength..."

But he wasn't certain if he actually had the strength. There was too much darkness, and he couldn't...

x-x

"I was barely even hurt."

Malcolm could scarcely make out the voice at first, and then he surfaced and it came clear. "The Captain and T'Pol hardly got a scratch on them. Why the hell are you the one who keeps getting hurt?" and then he was drowning, he was drowning in the darkness, the waves sweeping up over his head, choking him...

Trip again, talking to him, his rambling words coming fast. "You have to recover. Please. Come on, man. You promised you'd teach me how to surf." He felt a hand clutch his own, and suddenly his entire world was the heat of hand on his, the pressure he felt as Trip squeezed, then let go.

Malcolm wasn't sure he had the strength to get through this. Not this time. He was too tired. It was too dark. The only thing bright was Trip at his side, talking to him despite the fact that he couldn't respond, believing that Malcolm could hear him despite all evidence.

"Come on, kid. You've gotta be strong."

Maybe, if he let it, Trip's strength could be enough for them both.

x-x

Malcolm stood clumsily, almost falling before a hand caught his elbow.

"Hey," came a quiet voice from beside him.

"Hey, yourself," Malcolm said, the corner of his mouth turning upwards at the sight of Trip at his side. The man was obviously off-duty, and wearing one of the worst shirts that Malcolm had ever seen. "Interesting shirt."

Trip ignored the jibe and helped him hobble to the nearest chair. "You even supposed to be up?" he asked, pulling up another chair and sagging into it. Despite the brightness of his shirt, Trip seemed subdued.

Malcolm took a quick look around sickbay. "Technically, no. But I was getting stir crazy in that bed. I just needed to -

Trip waved him off. "Believe me, I get it. You've been awake here for, what? Four days already?"

Malcolm nodded. He'd woken in sickbay several days after Enterprise had found them, with only vague memories of the explosion. Once he'd been able to focus enough to talk, he'd had Trip tell him all about how they'd been rescued, and all the rest of it.

"How you doing?" Trip asked just as Phlox came out of his office and, seeing Malcolm with Trip, gave Malcolm a pointedly displeased look before mouthing, "Two minutes," silently and returning to his room.

Malcolm returned his attention to Trip. His leg was throbbing, and his chest hurt. And his head, and his back, and so he said, "All right, all things considered. Phlox said that I could be out of here in a couple of weeks."

"Will your leg be all right?"

Malcolm looked down at his right leg, still wrapped in bandages and supports. "Yes, it should be."

Trip smiled. "Good, 'cause I wanted to take you up on that offer of surfing."

"It may be a while," Malcolm replied, still looking at his leg. He let his eyes take in the bandages twisting around it, under the stiff support frame. The leg itself was mostly obscured, and based on Trip's description of the blast, Malcolm thought he was grateful not to be able to see it.

"That's fine," Trip said. "I can wait." He hesitated. "Surfing makes me nervous."

Malcolm looked up at Trip. He did look a bit anxious. "I thought you'd never been?"

"I haven't, but that's part of the reason why." Trip rubbed his hands together. "It makes me nervous."

Malcolm smiled. "It makes me nervous as well. Bit more than nervous, actually."

"I thought you loved it?"

"I do, in a way. The nerves are a part of that. It's more the fact that I'm mastering..." Malcolm let his voice trail away, realising that he'd never told Trip about his fear. "I'm aquaphobic," he said.

"What?" Trip asked. He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You're afraid of water?"

"Drowning," Malcolm said, his voice coming out sharper than he'd intended.

Trip leaned forward in his chair. "So, you took up surfing..." he said, his manner clearly questioning Malcolm's sanity.

Lightening his tone, Malcolm added with a shrug, "I'm a man of contradictions and mysteries."

Trip nodded quite seriously, which surprised Malcolm.

After a silent moment, Trip asked, "So, surfing?"

"I started surfing on purpose, in order to overcome the fear." Malcolm shifted in his seat, trying to make his leg more comfortable, but that only served to reawaken the pain. He winced and took a slow, controlled breath. "I thought if I could master the waves, it would help me manage the rest of it."

"And you did it?"

"It took a while, but yes, eventually, I did." Malcolm thought about the last time he'd been on a board. "The fear's still there, of course, but...it's as if I gain something every time I go out there."

Phlox poked his head out of his office and caught Malcolm's eye, so Malcolm nodded. He made to stand, and Trip was by his side in a second, helping him back into bed.

Trip pulled the blanket up over Malcolm, careful of his leg. "Get some sleep. You look like you could use it."

Malcolm nodded. He watched Trip's back as he left, closing his eyes as the door shut between them. He'd love to sleep. The first few nights here had been blissfully free of dream, but last night...last night had been an entirely different story.

Still, Phlox's drugs were strong, and he was tired. Maybe last night was an anomaly. Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe...

Malcolm felt himself drifting, and he let himself go.

x-x

Malcolm sat in the couch facing the lounge's window, his leg carefully propped on the coffee table in front of him. It was quite late - well past 02:00, and the room was dark around him, the only light from a series of small nightlights along the far wall. There was just enough illumination to allow him to see his own reflection in the glass of the window, but he looked past that, searching out the stars.

He'd been there for some time. Lately he'd found that it was impossible for him to stay in his room on restless nights like this one, so he'd started coming here, usually finding it empty at this hour.

He'd been...he counted back the days...three days out of sickbay, and each of those nights had been nothing but dreams, and nightmares...images of Trip, or the Polobians, or...

Malcolm shook his head, trying to ward away the memories. He knew that he was still recovering - he was off-duty, and still in physical therapy, but none of that seemed to be doing much for his head. It would probably help him if he could get some sleep, but he couldn't seem to. If he fell asleep, he'd only awaken again later, and then he wouldn't bother trying again, for the dreams. Even trying seemed pointless.

He heard footsteps behind him. "Figured I'd find you here," Trip said, yawning as he sat on the couch beside him.

Malcolm glanced over and saw Trip sitting low in the seat, his legs propped up on the coffee table. The man was almost lying down he was so slouched.

"Why are you up so late?" Malcolm asked.

"Looking for you." Trip looked at Malcolm, frankly analysing him. "You still having nightmares?" he asked abruptly.

"Why?"

"Because you look like shit," Trip replied, biting off the last word.

"I've just been through surgery, and -

Trip shook his head. "It's more than that." He turned to face Malcolm on the couch, pulling his legs up in front of him. "You're not acting like yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't seen you in days, Malcolm," Trip said, leaning forward and dropping his voice. He lifted a hand to take in the room. "I had to come here, in the middle of the night, to find you."

Malcolm looked away, staring out the window at the darkness.

"You've been avoiding me, avoiding your friends. I haven't seen you eating. I don't think you're sleeping."

Malcolm just shook his head, too drained even to argue.

Trip hesitated. Picking his words with obvious care, he asked, "Have you thought about seeing someone?"

"Seeing somebody?" Malcolm asked, looking at him in surprise. "I'm not crazy, Trip."

"Are you sure about that?" Trip asked gently.

"No," Malcolm answered, speaking before he could catch himself. He clenched the fist that was resting on the couch's arm, and let out a breath.

"I know we're far from home, but the counsellors at SF..." Malcolm shook his head again, but Trip continued. "No, listen to me. They really helped me after that... after the Xindi. They helped."

Malcolm, almost apologetically, said, "I don't believe in counselling." He looked away again. "I should be able to get myself out of this."

"You can't always control everything."

Malcolm felt pressure on his bandaged leg, very gentle, and he looked down to find Trip's hand resting there.

"Sometimes, despite your best efforts, shit just happens." Trip yawned again, settling deeper into the couch. "Sometimes you have to let go and rely on other people."

"On their strength," Malcolm said, his voice quiet, almost lost in the large room.

"Yeah," Trip answered. "You can't always control everything. Sometimes you have to give yourself over..."

"Give myself over?" Malcolm said, his voice raised. Fists clenched, he pinned Trip in his gaze, and felt Trip tense through the hand on his leg. "I gave up back there, Trip. In the last attack. Instead of fighting, I just... gave in." He looked away, all the fight going out of him. "I was so damn tired."

He felt the hand on his leg relax. "But you're here," Trip said. "You made it out."

Malcolm crossed his arms across his chest, then, head down, ran a hand over his face. He had made it out, but not through his own will to fight. All the fight had been beaten out of him by then.

Maybe Trip was right. Sometimes you couldn't...

His eyes focused on his reflection in the window, and he imagined what Trip saw: a man who was used to being able to overcome almost anything via sheer force of will. A man who was too beaten down and exhausted to be able to do that anymore. A man who needed help, but was pushing people away instead of letting them in.

Sometimes you had to let go, to rely on others, to let them help you fight. Sometimes, it took the strength of two.

Bloody hell, why was it that Trip was always right?

Malcolm placed his own hand on top of Trip's where it rested on his leg, and squeezed awkwardly, releasing quickly. "Thanks."

He was answered by a snore.

Raising an eyebrow, he looked over and caught Trip sleeping, head thrown back and mouth open. The man let out another loud snore, and Malcolm smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.

Unbelievable.

x-x

_Please let me know what you thought of this piece. Thank you._


End file.
